


The Orange Queen

by Unicornsarereal



Category: The Great British Bake Off RPF
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 03:35:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5812273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unicornsarereal/pseuds/Unicornsarereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paul taste's Chetna's flavors on his tongue and wants more. The bakers are fit for each other: The shy one and the critic. She is his flavor queen, and he is her king.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fanfiction about Chetna and Paul from season 1 of the Great British Bake Off. If you don't recall, Chetna is the sweet Indian lady with the short hair and cute smile. Paul had an affair with a baker named Marcela before he came onto the show.  
> Enjoy!

Paul’s POV

Everything about Chetna is orange. She wears bright orange Converse that draw attention to the eye, playful and childish, and one day she wears a beautiful orange sweater that makes her skin look warm. It shows up in her cooking, too: orange flavoring in her cake, orange mango going into her ice cream. She’s a light orange sunset in my mind, whenever I think of her. Her and that color are inseparable.  
After I think of that orange sunset, the guilt sets in. It churns in my stomach. I am married. I have a son with my wife. I’ve been married to Alexandra for 15 years, and honestly, the passion has died down to the point that we just tolerate each other. I had an affair with Marcela the year before, this beauty of a chef, but that ended quickly when we weren’t compatible. Nevertheless, that affair made me realize that I could keep another affair under wraps. And then Chetna caught my eye.  
She’s different than Marcela, that’s for sure. Marcela was an in-your-face busty brunette with long curls and your average pretty looks. She was the girl you saw on every street. Chetna is shy and has short, gray hair parted to the side that frames her adorable face. She looks so youthful that I have to wonder whether or not she dyes her hair gray for a look. Either way, it suits her well. She is also Indian and has a mix of an Indian and British accent that is completely irresistible.  
The second reason for my guilt is that I’m a judge on this show, and Chetna is a contestant. I need to be as unbiased as possible while judging. It’s just not fair to the other contestants. I’ve been keeping my interest in the woman quiet for most of the show. I haven’t openly insisted that she be crowned star chef- just with Mary, who has quickly caught on but is staying mum. I’ve been speaking the truth about her bakes, but giving her half the praise I wish to.  
It’s only been a week and my mind is already spinning about seeing her again, every weekend (because surely she will last for weeks and weeks). Was that little smile she gave me when I was walking around just for me? She didn’t seem to smile like that at Sue.  
Damn it, I’m in deep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He brought it up to his mouth and licked it off his finger. I glanced at him, then at my batter, then back at him. 'I- I used cardamom in the recipe, as an addition. I used it quite a lot growing up in India, if that’s what you’re tasting.'"

Chetna’s POV

The judges on the show are interesting. I highly respect them both. To be honest, I’m kind of afraid of them. They seem to know every detail about everything I could ever bake, and I’m surprised they didn’t give me a load of criticism the first time they judged me.  
Mary seems nice enough, and Paul? The only way I can describe him is a presence.  
He was walking around as we made our cakes. He slowed when he got to my table. “Hello. Chetna, is it?”  
“Yes, sir.” I was still stirring the batter, looking at my work while he spoke.  
“Please, don’t call me ‘sir.’ Call me Paul. There’s no need for all of that.” That made me pause and look up. Then I noticed his eyes.  
Lords above. They were a piercing, icy blue that met mine and lingered. He rested his hand on the corner of the table.  
“All right. Whatever pleases you.”  
“Thank you,” he said with a slight nod. “Let me see what you are making.” He walked around to my side of the table and dipped a finger in the batter. I raised my eyebrows. “Don’t worry, I washed my hands before this.”  
“No, it’s okay, go ahead. Though I might warn you that it has raw eggs,” I said, flustered. No one had stuck their hands in my batter before, but I supposed it was good for him to taste it.  
He brought it up to his mouth and licked it off his finger. I glanced at him, then at my batter, then back at him. “I- I used cardamom in the recipe, as an addition. I used it quite a lot growing up in India, if that’s what you’re tasting.”  
“Yes, that must be it,” he said slowly, giving me a smile. “Absolutely marvelous flavour. I can’t wait to see how it turns out, though I can already tell it will be a showstopper.”  
“Thank you, sir- Paul, I mean,” I said. He took a step away. I wondered why he was staying so long at my table. He smiled, amused at my trouble with calling him Paul, and his face turned kind when he smiled, which made me smile back. Finally, he turned around and went onto the next table.  
I was left standing there with the image of him licking his own finger in my mind, and hoped I wasn’t blushing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again. Please comment and tell me what you thought. Is this relationship realistic so far? Would you like to see more of the actual show or is this fine? For now, I'm just writing about Paul and Chetna's relationship.  
> The next chapter will be long! Thank you for reading.  
> -Amy


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are heating up.

Paul POV

When I got home, Alex wasn’t here. As usual. She worked long hours, and I suspected, went off to the pub after work just to avoid coming home. I tucked my son into bed and then got on my laptop. I googled Chetna Makan, feeling an ache to learn more about her, connect with her in some way besides for seeing her at the tent for the show.  
The first thing that popped up was her blog. Beautiful pictures of food adorned the screen, and I smiled to myself. Orange chutneys and golden brown bread. Her About page showed an absolutely adorable picture of her smiling that made my heart ache. “My mum taught me everything I know about flavors,” it read. Indeed, she was a queen when it came to flavours in baking.  
…  
The next day, I mustered up the courage to actually do something. After the second episode was filmed and the contestants were finished cleaning up, I approached Chetna, trying to be as neutral as possible.  
“Hello. Wonderful job today,” I said as she walked out the door. Her eyes widened when she saw that I intended to speak with her, and only her, and she stepped to the side, glancing down at the ground and then up at me.  
“Thank you, Mr. Hollywood. I certainly tried my best.”  
“I think you bring an interesting taste, so to speak, to this competition,” I said with a grin. Flashing my teeth normally had somewhat of an effect on women, and sure enough, Chetna glanced shyly up at me and smiled. “You were born in India, correct?”  
“That’s correct. I was born in India and then travelled to Mumbai, and then finally ended up in England.”  
“Well, the ingredients you use are refreshingly unique. Cardamom, who would’ve thought?”  
“I was a little uncertain about that,” she said, clutching her bag with both hands.  
“It worked wonders. Tell you what. Do you think I could swing by your house to take a look at your ingredients while you prepare next week’s challenge? Of course, if it’s convenient for you.”  
“You’d like to look at my ingredients?” she raised her eyebrow. “I assure you, they’re just the things you find at the supermarket.”  
Damn. I needed something else. “Also to watch you work, too. I could learn some Indian techniques they don’t have here in England.”  
“All right,” she said. Then she took a breath and tilted her head. “I was wondering, how does your hair do that?”  
I was taken aback. “Do what?”  
“Well, the little pieces in front just go like-“ she used her hands to mime the action- “shwoop!” and her fingers opened forward.  
I laughed heartily, one hand on the wall for support. “I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me that. Well, the hair and makeup team put quite a bit of product in it, I suppose. I certainly don’t wake up like this.”  
“Well, it works. On you, I mean.” Her eyes went from my hair to my eyes.  
“Thanks,” I said. She complimented me, bloody hell, this might get somewhere.  
“So, um, should I give you my address? By the way, I live in an apartment, not a house.”  
“Probably, if you don’t want me to show up at Buckingham Palace,” I said. Dammit, Paul, your jokes are always terrible.  
“How do you know I don’t live there?” she asked with a chuckle, pulling out her phone.  
“You could fool me,” I said, still thinking about her being the queen of flavour. She had a timeless elegance about her, the likes of which I’d never seen before. It was almost startling to see a smartphone in her hand.  
“Oh, hush,” she said. “I’ll email it to you. What’s your email?” I told her, and she sent it. “What time works for you to come?”  
“Anytime. I don’t have any other obligations, really.” Besides my son’s football matches, but I didn’t want to mention my son in front of her. It would just shatter the glass we were putting up between us and the real world.  
“All right. I’ll be starting my first trial on Tuesday. How about you come around nine?”  
“That sounds good to me. Now, I have to go. See you on Tuesday.”  
“See you,” she replied with a little wave before turning and walking left. I walked right, towards my car, heart beating quick.  
What had just happened? I had invited myself over to her apartment, like an arse, and she had accepted. Did she like me or did she not? Was she just going along with it because I was the judge, and therefore in a higher up position than her?  
That thought brought more guilt. This dynamic was unfair, too, the judge and the contestant. I would have to make sure that this was what she wanted before turning it into anything else. I walked on thin ice, but with the memory of her smile, I decided it was worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please comment, leave Kudos, and tell me what you thought. I'll be updating soon!


End file.
